


Following The Wrong God Home

by scoradh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron isn't gay. But, feeling like he's losing his best friend, he sometimes wishes that he was.</p><p>Originally written for galaxynumber5 in slashfest, December 2005.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Following The Wrong God Home

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure this is the one where I wrote Hermione in a horrible misogynist way, so TW for that. The title is stolen from a book of the same name by Catherine Lim, because I thought it was cool and was clearly having a failure of imagination the day I had to name this fic. It is somewhat relevant at least.

_People will tell you where they’ve gone_

_They’ll tell you where to go_

_But till you get there yourself, you never really know_

\-- JONI MITCHELL

 

 

 

It was one of those mornings when the clouds were labouring under the misapprehension that they were just more flexible bits of the ground, and they wanted to get a lot closer to it. The pesky horizon was obscured by a downpour of rain, which wasn’t so much sleet as snow with an inferiority complex.

Ron looked out of the window as he fumbled with the cuffs of his robes, biting his lip. His fur-lined waterproof cloak would be ideal for a day like this, but his lighter wool cloak had the advantages of a hood. They were both a shade of forest green, as were most of his clothes. He’d once thought that it was a colour that gave him the appearance of an upside-down carrot; Hermione had convinced him otherwise and Ron had yielded to her infinite wisdom.

Deciding to leave it up to her, he got both cloaks out of his cupboard and laid them out on the candlewick bedspread, taking care to smooth out any wrinkles. The smell of oatmeal and wholegrain toast floated up the stairs to greet him.

Compared to Ron’s bachelor days, when the intoxicating scent of rashers, bacon and black pudding à la Harry embraced Ron each morning like a satisfied lover, Hermione’s cooking was a cold shower. However, Ron had realised early in his married life that he could choose between fighting with Hermione over just about everything, or he could let her do what she wanted. He’d chosen the latter course, mostly because the main premises of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes was right next door to the best doughnut shop in wizarding London.

“Morning, dear,” said Hermione as he entered the kitchen. She flicked her wand around like a ballerina. A chair hopped out, plumping its cushions invitingly, milk and one spoonful of sugar poured themselves into Ron’s bowl of oatmeal and two lightly browned slices of toast soared from the toaster on to his plate.

“Morning, love.” Ron leaned over to kiss her cheek and missed by several inches as she whirled away to check her briefcase. Shrugging, Ron took advantage of her distraction to heap two more spoons of sugar into his oatmeal and stir it around so that she wouldn’t notice.

“How are you this morning?” asked Hermione. She raised a hand to pat her coiled bun, seeming to doubt that her hair would succumb to the regimentation she liked in her life. Even now, tendrils were fighting for their freedom to curl around her hairline. Ron hoped she wouldn’t notice them, as he rather liked them.

“Fine, thanks, love, and you?” Ron crunched the edge of his toast. It was full of healthy nutrients and vitamins and, as such, tasted like buttered cardboard.

“Can’t complain.” Hermione flashed him a brief smile. “I’ve got a busy week ahead, so I’ve asked Ginny to cook a few things for you in case I don’t get home in time.”

“Hermione,” Ron tried to protest. He found his airway blocked by a highly nutritious crumb of toast. “I can cook perfectly well --”

“ _Healthy_ things, Ron.” A faint frown line appearing between Hermione’s brows. She was going to have a forehead like corrugated iron one day. “I know what your idea of cooking is -- takeaways and fry-ups. Do you have _any_ idea what you’re doing to your arteries when you eat that sort of food?”

Ron wanted to say no, he didn’t, and that was the _point_ , but Hermione probably wouldn’t talk to him for a day if he said something like that. Instead, he made a gesture that was part shrug, part deprecating smile, which he’d evolved specifically to deal with Hermione in crusading mode.

“It’s a horrible day outside,” added Hermione. She twitched aside the heavy lace curtains, her face pensive. “Which cloak are you going to wear?”

She’d already made up her mind, Ron could tell; but she didn’t like to tell him what to do. She preferred to suggest and, for that, Ron had to make a contribution too. “Perhaps the wool one with the hood --” he began. Hermione shook her head.

“No, it looks cold enough for the fur-lined one,” she said. “You need to wrap up well in weather like this. Here, take a scarf and an umbrella.”

Ron suppressed a sigh. Hermione had made him the scarf for their first anniversary. It was, in essence, one huge snarl of broken threads and knots and it made the twins convulse with laughter whenever he wore it. Still, Hermione would be hurt if he purchased another one. He lived in hope that his heavy hints to all his siblings would result in a new, shop-bought scarf for Christmas.

“I’d better be off.” Hermione swished her own velvet opera cloak around her trim shoulders. “I’ll see you this evening, dear.” She dropped a kiss on the top of his cheek, where there were fewer crumbs, and Disapparated.

Ron breathed a small sigh of relief. He loved Hermione with all his heart, but there were many times when he felt more comfortable when she was just … gone. He added even more sugar to his oatmeal, so that it would taste of _sugar,_ and not of something he’d already eaten. He followed this with a mug of tea with plenty of the forbidden substance.

Hermione kept a small amount of tea in the house for visitors, but she disapproved of caffeine in her family’s case. As Ron was usually finished work three or four hours before Hermione, it was very easy to replace any tea bags he used before she got home.

At about nine o’clock, he thought he’d better make a move for work. The twins were fairly lax when it came to their employees. Mostly these consisted of pretty young witches whom one of the twins was trying to seduce, so they turned a blind eye to their blatant nail-filing. The rest were rather fanatical young men with ‘ideas’ who’d work for nothing if the twins asked. Ron got special treatment as a relative, such as doing the bulk of stocking shelves and accounts, the tasks that the rest were too stupid or busy to do.

Hermione introduced him as a senior retailer when they went to her Ministry parties. Ron got the impression that she was embarrassed by his job, although these days she was far too politic to admit it. Once or twice, early on, she’d hinted that he could do with an occupation that stretched him more, but as Ron found marital relations the stretching equivalent of Cold War pilates, he ignored her jabs.

He imagined that he would be promoted to full time husband when Hermione achieved her ambition of becoming Minister for Magic, an event that she confidently expected to happen before she was forty. She’d once mentioned in passing that two children were also part of the long-term forecast. Ron thought that it would be rather nice to stay home and look after them. It couldn’t be that different from working in a joke shop, and would probably be a good deal less smelly.

He was in the process of hanging his wool cloak back in the wardrobe when a furious rapping came from the window. Ron’s heart gave a great lurch when he saw an owl flapping its sodden wings and eyeing him with an unmistakable amber glare.

He still didn’t connect Hedwig with ‘letter delivery,’ even though she almost took out his eye with her eager parchment claw as he let her in. A message from Harry was about as frequent as a house call from Jesus. Ron tried to remember the last time he’d received a letter; was it the short note apologising for the fact that Harry wouldn’t be able to make the wedding, or had there been once since? Harry _had_ sent Ginny a card when she’d got engaged to Oliver Wood, but since her wedding and Ron’s had been within months of each other Ron couldn’t remember which missive had arrived first.

Ron abandoned his cloak in order to fetch Hedwig some water in his tooth mug. Insofar as she was able, she looked affronted by such plebeian treatment, but there hadn’t been an owl in the house since Hermione had found out how unhygienic they were. Ron caught himself on the cusp of apologising to a bird and decided that he wasn’t quite that cowed.

The letter was as brief as ever, but Ron had to read it over and over to allow the information to sink in.

Ron

Will be in Diagon Alley this afternoon at four. Would be great if we could meet up.

Harry

Ron, grinning stupidly, decided he’d go against Hermione’s advice and wear the wool cloak, just for the hell of it.

* * *

“Jesus, are you serious?” Fred stopped trying to flatten his cowlick by his reflection in a teaspoon. “That’s great!”

“You have to tell him we’d like to see him, too, if he has time,” added George, completely ignoring the newest salesgirl as she bent over to pick up a quill for his benefit. “And I bet Mum would just have paroxysms of joy if he’d visit her.”

Ron felt somewhat disgruntled. If he was lucky, one of his brothers would grunt a “Good morning” at him at midday, once a week. Only when Harry was somehow involved did Ron merit any real attention. It was like being fourteen all over again.

“He’s probably very busy,” he muttered, even though he was quite sure that the reverse was true.

Harry had worked for a time as an Auror, but it wasn’t a job suited to someone with such a high profile. Then, there had been the scandal with Malfoy and he’d disappeared. Ron had never found out exactly what Harry had done during that time. However, Ron somehow doubted that it involved washing dishes in two different restaurants to pay the rent, which is what Ron had been reduced to doing when Harry left him in the lurch.

If the few reports that filtered as far as England were true, Harry was living the life of a disaffected millionaire, partying on yachts and in mansions the world over. It didn’t sound like the Harry Ron knew, but Ron often wondered if that Harry had existed at all outside of his head.

“Is he still, you know?” Fred cleared his throat, waving his hand as if he were conducting an orchestra. This made Ron even more irritable. If it hadn’t been for reactions like that, Harry wouldn’t have decided to cut loose and do a runner when he was outed on the front page of the _Daily Prophet._

“Gay?” finished Ron, in a loud voice. A few heads turned towards them; a titter or two could be detected. The world, however, stubbornly refused to end and the sun stayed obstinately in the sky. And people called _Ron_ thick and insensitive. He’d figured it out by the time they were _twelve,_ for crying out loud.

“With Malfoy, was what I was going to say.” Fred sent a disapproving glance in his youngest brother’s direction. It was quite clear that it was about as far from what he was going to say as it was from a psalm enumerating the wonders of Allah, but Ron felt too grouchy to call him on it.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I would imagine not, as Harry’s supposed to have been in Peru while Malfoy gets called up by the Inappropriate Use of Magic squad every second week.”

“The two are not incompatible,” said George. He finally spotted the salesgirl, who had dropped an aviary’s worth of quills in order to get his attention. He sent her a slow and delighted wink.

“Yes, they are,” said Ron. In his opinion, anyway. If you had a choice between having sex with Harry, a lot, and enchanting forks so they attacked anyone who touched them and then selling them door-to-door, Ron thought that no one in their right mind would choose the latter. Not that Malfoy _was_ in his right mind, or indeed his left.

There was something not quite right about the thought, but Ron had spotted a huge stack of Skiving Snackboxes about to fall on the head of a child tugging at one on the very bottom. His duty to save the stupid from their own destruction called.

* * *

The rain had cleared into a half-hearted drizzle by four o’clock. Ron tugged his hood further down his damp forehead, feeling the eager droplets soak right through the wool. It was like wearing a very comprehensive sponge. Hermione had been right, as usual.

He had no idea where in Diagon Alley Harry was going to turn up and this was worrying him more than it should have. He was twenty-eight years old, a legal adult for eleven of those and a husband for three, and he was as nervous as he’d been on the first day of school.

It was only Harry. He kept repeating that to himself. It didn’t work. He was _jittery._

He paced from what had once been Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlour to the apothecary’s about seven times, which at least burned off the evil calories from his iced doughnut. It was just when he was on the point of going home that Harry appeared, creating a massive stir in time-honoured fashion.

He Apparated right in the middle of the street, his appearance contrasting with the huddled, grey people around him like a crocus sprouting amongst gravel. Despite the chill of the day, Harry was wearing sunglasses, along with jeans so torn and tatty they were more seam than anything else and a vast tie-dyed t-shirt that could have doubled as a dress. Ron, whose knowledge of Harry’s mindset after the age of twenty-one was as patchy as Harry’s current attire, couldn’t be sure if this was the desired effect or not.

“Ron!” yelled Harry in delight, striding over to where Ron stood frozen, his hood sticking to the wet whorls of hair that he had failed to keep rain-free. How Harry had spotted him among so many people Ron couldn’t say, but there was no denying that several hundred people were now also looking at him with curious expressions.

Ron cleared his throat to speak and found himself engulfed in a hug. He hugged back; it was like embracing an interestingly-proportioned twig. The only other people Ron had ever hugged were his mother, his sister and his wife, and they went in and out a great deal more than Harry. All the same, he’d never been held tighter.

When Harry finally released him, the street theatre they provided had accumulated a large crowd. Harry pushed his sunglasses back into his unruly hair, revealing a face braised brown and deep pink, with chocolate sprinkle freckles across his nose. Ron felt a start, for the last time he’d seen Harry, he’d been a boy. Now he was a man and the charisma that had been threatening all his life had well and truly landed.

“It is _so_ good to see you!” Harry pronounced, in tones as warm as melted caramel.

The combination of irritating factors, from the gaping crowd to his wet hair, prodded Ron into saying with more than a bite of acerbity, “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed. How long has it been -- six years? Seven?”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and assumed that guilty expression Ron knew so well. “I can explain, I think.”

“That’s nice,” said Ron. “It would be terrible to think you’d just _forgotten_ us, or something. Anyway, do you want to go somewhere more private?”

As soon as he’d said it, he realised how stupid it was. He’d only been talking about ‘getting away from all these ogling strangers,’ but in Harry’s world the phrase probably meant a whole host of other, complicated activities.

Harry didn’t seem to have picked up on the gaffe, however, for he just said with palpable enthusiasm, “Yeah! Let’s go out and explore Muggle London. Find some little dive of a pub and stay till lock-in, like we used to.”

Ron remembered that. He remembered begging his brothers for a job because of the debt that following Harry’s profligate example had got him into. The teabags he needed to replace flitted across his mind.

He nodded.

* * *

Harry was fiddling with his sunglasses, which lay on the pitted tabletop separating them. Ron wondered how he could see without them, but as yet hadn’t had a chance to ask. He didn’t want to stop Harry’s hesitant narrative.

“I suppose I was just overwhelmed.” Harry’s eyes were lambent in the dusk of the pub. “I didn’t expect people to be so interested, or so … disappointed in me. So I ran.” He paused and twitched his pursed mouth.

Ron found himself focusing on those asymmetric curves so that his eyes wouldn’t cross. There had once been a time when he could drink eight pints with no loss of co-ordination, but those days were no more.

“I didn’t stay with Malfoy for very long, by the way,” added Harry. “That was just part of the rebellion. I think, now, that I wanted to try it out on someone who wouldn’t matter very much, if that makes any sense. It was purely sex.”

Ron shifted in his seat. The alcohol must have been getting to him; Harry’s words were starting to provoke a tingling sensation in his lower abdomen.

“ -- think it was the same for him.” Ron blinked, staring at Harry’s moving mouth. “It wasn’t like we _loved_ each other, anyway. But I wanted some time to, I don’t know, come to terms with all of it. Then, the longer I stayed away, the easier it was. I regret not coming to your wedding. That was bad of me. But I just thought it would be better all around if I didn’t.”

“We missed you,” said Ron simply. He wasn’t judging Harry; he’d done his fill of that three years ago. But if he forgave Harry seventy times seven, he would never forget that Harry hadn’t been at his shoulder to hand him the ring.

Harry’s teeth scraped over his lower lip, causing the flesh to blossom into folds. “I didn’t want to have people saying that you -- that you and I -- not on your wedding day --”

“But, Harry,” objected Ron, “we didn’t. We never … I mean, I realised, but --”

“You did?” Harry’s mouth dropped open. “But I never told you!”

“Give me some credit,” snapped Ron. “You’re Harry Potter. You don’t tell _anyone_ anything. I just happen to have been your friend longer than anyone, remember?”

“The reporters would have had a field day with that.” Harry’s voice was as dry as his martini. He’d developed very fancy drinking tastes while he’d been away.

“You were going to let the likes of Rita Skeeter put you off?” Ron felt an alcoholic bluster of anger accumulating in his veins. “Jeez, I expected more of you, Harry.”

Harry began to shred a bar mat. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking too clearly at the time, either, to be honest. There was a period when I -- but, yeah.” He shook his head. His hair, which was longer and shaggier than Ron remembered and which accentuated his face to a disturbing extent, settled over his ears.

“Are you going to stay around for long?” asked Ron. He didn’t mention all the people who would love to see Harry. Right then he was thinking of no one but himself.

Harry graced the antique light fitting above Ron’s head with an unreadable stare. “Would you like me to?”

* * *

The little mews house was in darkness. It startled Ron for a moment, before the reminder broke through his alcoholic haze to the effect that Hermione was going to be working late on her latest campaign.

“So this is your place?” Harry looked around with interest, his hands deep in his pockets. He was still walking and talking normally, unlike Ron, who was reeling like a sailor. “It’s very pretty.”

Ron unlatched the gate after a few tries. “Yesh,” he hiccupped. “Hermione likes it.”

He thought Harry frowned then, but it might just have been the odd play of light from the sodium streetlamps. At any rate, Harry looped an arm around his waist and steadied him with no apparent effort, just like old times. He even rummaged the key out of Ron’s pocket.

In their brief time living together, they’d always kept the key in the same pocket so that the one who was least drunk could find it. It wasn’t until years later when Ron was repeating this to Hermione that she had asked, all exasperation, “But why didn’t you get another key cut?”

Ron had no answer to that one.

Ron stumbled into the living room and fell on to the sofa, tipping over a dried flower arrangement. On following him, Harry righted it and lit the branches of candles with a wave of his wand.

“Very tasteful,” he said. It was the exact truth; the muted greys and sands, the faint suggestion of a stripe motif, were the epitome of tasteful. It displayed quite a lot of Hermione’s roots in the dental waiting room and absolutely none of the chaotic cheeriness of the Weasley home base.

“You can stop giving it marks out of ten,” groaned Ron. “God, we have no hangover potion in the house … Hermione only has one glass of red wine a week …”

“What about you?” asked Harry.

“I don’t like wine,” said Ron. “Sit down, would you, you’re making me feel uncomfortable.”

“Right.” Harry sat down on the sofa. Ron hadn’t meant ‘on my feet,’ but he was feeling too nauseous to comment. “Where’s Hermione?”

“Oh, working. If we stay up late enough we should catch her. She’ll be Minister for Magic one day, you mark my words.” Ron beamed at Harry.

“I never doubted it for a moment,” said Harry. “She’ll have it easy, what with the calibre of the idiots who’ve held the office ever since I can remember.”

Ron had the feeling that this comment worked out as a left-handed insult, but it was pretty much the truth. His stomach gave a loud grumble. “We could eat. Ginny was supposed to have cooked me something.”

He felt Harry jump against the soles of his feet. Hermione would kill Ron for not taking off his shoes. “Ginny? Is she here?”

“Not right now. You have t’see her, though, you know. Because of -- you need to.” As arguments went Ron was aware that this wasn’t the most persuasive, but his last pint was holding the reins now and it scorned educated debate.

“I will,” said Harry.

Ron closed his eyes to rest them for a moment; when he opened them again, a tantalising smell was teasing his nostrils like a skilled flirt. He almost moaned in appreciation.

“Poached eggs, scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon and lashings of ketchup.” Harry put a plate on the floor beside Ron and tipped cutlery into his lap. “There was some kind of vegetarian quiche in the kitchen. I wouldn’t have given it to a dog.”

“But where did you _get_ this stuff?” asked Ron. It was quite an effort, as he was doing his best to eat everything at once. “There’s nothing like this in the larder. The closest we come to a sausage is stuffed tomatoes.”

“So I gathered.” Harry was perched on the glass-topped coffee table, his runners propped up on the sofa cushions. Hermione would have a heart attack, but Ron was more interested in the way both of Harry’s knees poked out of the holes in his jeans, smooth and shiny as fresh paint. “I went out and bought some while you were asleep.”

“Asleep?” Ron checked his watch. It read twelve-fifteen. “You should have woken me. I have work in the morning.”

“Can’t you call in sick?” asked Harry. “Where do you work, anyway?”

“With the twins,” mumbled Ron, not able to meet Harry’s gaze. There was a long silence, during which Ron shovelled up scrambled egg and tried to concentrate on just revelling in a taste which he’d thought denied to him forever, at least since Hermione and Ginny had started their two-pronged health-kick.

“With the twins.” Harry’s voice was flat. “What happened to your plans of opening your own pub?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they got lost on the way.” Ron’s attempt at flippancy hit the pool of Harry’s disapproval with a dull crack. Ron began to feel defensive. “It wasn’t like I had a choice, Harry. I’m not _you_.”

“You think I’m someone with a lot of choice?” Harry’s voice sounded strained. Ron made an impatient noise, spearing his sausage as one would an evasive gazelle.

“Of course you are. Plenty of money, plenty of time, famous and --” Ron was going to say good-looking, which was true, but liable to be taken the wrong way, even though there was no one else to hear and take it the wrong way “-- a hero,” he finished lamely.

“I would have given you the backing.”

“I didn’t want your money. I wanted us to open it together,” said Ron.

The pain was gone; all he had was the memory of pain, the one that was warning him now not to want Harry to stay because he could wake up again to find him gone, just like the last time. It had taken years and a lot of effort on both their parts to build up such a strong bridge of trust between them; one rumour had caused Harry to abandon everything, including that trust.

“We can talk about it in the morning.” Harry’s tone was a gentle one.

“There’s a guest bedroom --” Ron began. Harry grinned.

“I’ve already found it. I knew you were harbouring a secret love of chintz all these years. Don’t even _try_ to blame Hermione.”

“I admit it, you’ve foiled me again.” Ron raised his hands in mock surrender. “Oh, and Harry?”

Harry paused, his hand on the lintel. “Yeah?”

“I’ll call in sick tomorrow.”

* * *

Ron found a note from his wife when he woke up at noon the next day. His head was pounding as though there were a tribe of trapped imps inside. They didn’t appear to be very happy with the standard of their new accommodation.

Dear Ron, you were sleeping like the dead when I got home. You looked so peaceful that I didn’t have the heart to wake you. I have to go in early today; there are some people I need to meet before we start work. I’ll see you this evening, if it’s not too late. Love, Hermione.

Ron tossed it aside in favour of clutching his aching head. The glacial, chic whiteness of the room made his eyes water. He’d forgotten how debilitating hangovers were; or perhaps this was the onset of middle age. Ron was just in the process of a frantic search for his spreading paunch when Harry wandered in, clutching a glass of vile-looking orange liquid. He was wearing his sunglasses and not much else.

“Harry,” croaked Ron, “for the love of God put on some clothes. I can’t deal with you in a loincloth right now.”

“This is all I could find,” said Harry, plonking down on to Ron’s beside locker.

“I think it’s Hermione’s facecloth,” murmured Ron. He lay back to see if this would appease the imps in his head. It had quite the reverse effect.

“Here. Brazilian wizard gave me the recipe. The most effective hangover remedy in the world.”

Ron eyed the glass that was being shoved into his face with deep suspicion. “It looks more like something you put on weeds to give them a quick and painless death.”

“Not that much difference, granted,” conceded Harry. “Just take a sip. Trust me.”

Ron looked at his own reflection in Harry’s dark glasses and realised that he trusted Harry almost by default. You tended to do that to people who saved the world, no matter how they treated you personally. He pulled the glass, with Harry’s hand still attached, to his mouth and drank.

The effect was instantaneous and easily observed by the layman by dropping something highly acidic into water. Ron shot upright, feeling his eyelids snap upwards so fast he got windburn from his eyelashes. He was making a spirited attempt to sprint through the wall when the effects wore off, leaving him with his nose mushed into the impeccable wallpaper.

Harry was lying on his back and laughing at him. Feeling affronted, Ron smoothed down his pinstripe pyjamas and tried to tell himself that Harry looked even more ludicrous than he did, splayed out with only movie star shades and a pink towel between him and his dignity. It was no use; Harry, at that moment, looked like something ancient Greeks wanted to sculpt when they were feeling particularly libidinous.

“I see Hermione’s missed me again,” remarked Harry, when his giggles wore off. He waved the crumpled note.

“I doubt she’s even realised you’re here,” said Ron. He’d just noticed his own reflection, although he was debating the point; surely his face didn’t look usually like he’d scrubbed it with a wire brush until he’d taken off the first layer of skin. Nor did his real hair give the strong impression that a skunk had recently died in it.

“We could always leave her a note, too,” suggested Harry.

His grin was on the angelic side of wicked, but Ron wasn’t fooled. It smacked of the guilty pleasure that had been, in the old days, their frequent indulging in mutual complaints about Hermione. There was no doubt that Hermione had sparked off more corners with Ron and Harry than Harry and Ron had with each other, but because she was now Ron’s wife the guilt quotient had doubled. Besides, this wasn’t bemoaning the insanity of colour-coded study notes. It was Harry attacking, obliquely, the very basis of Ron’s married life.

In other words, Harry was really in no position to comment.

As far as Ron could see, there were two responses to Harry’s comment. One was a snide query as to how exactly he and Malfoy had communicated -- by banging war drums? The other acknowledged that Harry had a point. When Hermione was working hard, she and Ron didn’t so much spend time together as pass each by other, occasionally spotting each other in the hall or kitchen as one was leaving and the other arriving. That was just how it was. Neither reply appealed to Ron.

“Hallo? Ron, you lazy bugger, are you ill? The twins are going spare!”

“Ginny,” breathed Ron. He flicked his eyes up to meet Harry’s glass-covered gaze. Harry, working on some primitive Pavlovian response that ordered him to revert to the mentality of a five-year-old, was trying to hide behind the bedroom curtain. He was gripping his towel for dear life. Ron didn’t need to see through his smoked glasses to know that he was afraid of seeing Ginny again. After all, Harry had put a serious dent in his friendship with Ron, but he’d broken Ginny’s heart.

Ron kept his eyes on Harry’s face as the sound of elephantine steps fell on the stairs. Harry gave a tiny shake of his head, his lips forming what looked like “Please.”

Ron didn’t even have to think. He leapt out of the room, slamming the door so hard behind him that the elegant and muted paintings on the wall bounced on their hooks, constituting the most action they’d seen since their creation.

“God, Ron, you look a bit rough,” observed Ginny, with all the typical niceties of sisterly devotion.

“Cheers,” said Ron, wincing. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have work?”

Ginny shook her head. “Maternity leave, remember? I don’t go back for another month. Keep up, Ronniekins.”

“Fine, then,” sighed Ron, doing his best to edge Ginny away from his bedroom by pretending to look like he had a pressing need for the lavatory. “Where’s Rufus?”

“Mum has him for the day. You know how she loves kids.” Ron was sure that the look Ginny was sending him was gilded with radioactive disapproval. He didn’t feel like debating Hermione’s point-blank refusal to fall pregnant in her twenties just now, not when Harry was probably listening to every word.

“I see you ate all the quiche,” Ginny went on. She tailed him to the door of the bathroom. Ron listened with half an ear; he was looking down at his hands as he laced his toothbrush with environmentally friendly toothpaste. There was something missing, he was sure of it, but all of his fingers were accounted for.

“What’s that? Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Ron shoved his toothbrush into his mouth, hoping it would curtail Ginny’s attempt to revive the Spanish Inquisition. She just glared at him.

“Where’s your wedding ring? Don’t tell me you’ve lost it. Hermione’ll do her nut. She told me she had them specially made by a dwarf jeweller in Cologne.”

Ron felt that it would not look too good if he said, “Really, she did?” Besides, horror occupied the forefront of his mind.

 _The ring was gone._ The worst thing was that he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen it. He’d often had to take it off when he was cleaning the twin’s laboratory, but he was sure he’d always put it back on afterwards. Always …

Ginny appeared to assume that he’d just put it down somewhere, for she’d wandered into the bathroom and was examining Hermione’s bath salts. She, Hermione, Fleur and Charlie’s wife Martha seemed to be holding an informal competition for the title of best All-Round Mother, Wife and Housekeeper. As Hermione and Ginny were best friends, the contest raged bitterest between them.

“These are nice,” remarked Ginny, her expression that of someone fondling a poisonous snake. “Apple blossom. That’s a bit common, isn’t it? I always thought Hermione was more of a patchouli and ginger woman.”

“Couldn’t say, really,” mumbled Ron.

He spat out a mouthful of foam with reluctance. Now he’d have no excuse not to talk to his sister. He tossed the toothbrush into the sink, where it clattered against the plughole in a most satisfying manner.

“You do seem a bit off colour,” said Ginny, raising her eyebrows at this sign of rebellion. “Are you running a fever? Are you going to be away from work for a while, because you need to tell the twins --”

“Hey, Ginny,” said Ron. He was finding it rather difficult to speak. The gritted teeth might have had something to do with that. “I _know._ ”

“Excuse me for being concerned, I’m sure,” Ginny sniffed.

“For me, or them? Oh, don’t bother. You seem keen to tattle on me, so _you_ can tell them that I’m taking a sabbatical. They can make Polly and Cindy and Taffy and whatever the hell their names are stock the shelves for a while.” Ron ripped his dressing gown from the back of the door and stomped downstairs.

Ginny was hot on his heels. “They really employ someone called Taffy?”

Ron sent her a glare that could have melted iron at fifty paces. It seemed to have a minute effect on Ginny’s eagerness, for she coughed. Ron deflated.

“I think it’s Tammy, but that’s nearly the same.”

Ginny scrutinized him for a minute, her brows curling together like two surprised, fluffy caterpillars. “You _should_ take a holiday,” she pronounced. “Go away for a bit. Take Hermione, too.”

“Oh, she’s far too busy.” Ron was without bitterness, just stating a fact.

Ginny’s expression developed a hint of inscrutability, but she just shrugged. “There’s no law that says you can’t go on your own. Listen, I made you some meatless lasagne, so you won’t starve to death.” She gestured to something that looked like a small hell for bad sprouts. Ron managed to smile.

“Thanks, Gin,” he said. “I do appreciate it.”

“I know you do, you old sod. I’ll call round tomorrow -- maybe bring Rufus? Oliver’s playing away in Yugoslavia, so I’m counting on you to entertain me.”

At least she didn’t try to disguise it, Ron thought grumpily. Aloud, he replied, “That’d be nice.”

When she was gone, Ron stood in the kitchen, feeling tendrils of cold creep up his feet from the stylish slate floor. After a while, he prodded the lasagne experimentally. He could have sworn that it prodded back.

He almost thought the air changed when Harry entered, like the universe was wrapping itself around him. The distinctive nose-tickling scent of pepper was also a dead giveaway.

“I take it she’s gone?”

“You wouldn’t have come down if you knew she wasn’t,” Ron pointed out. The rain was pelting chaos on to the scalloped sand of the zen garden.

“True.” Now Ron could hear the pad of Harry’s feet as he came closer. “I just --”

Ron stopped him with a shrug. Amazingly, it worked; Harry didn’t say anything else.

“If I could get away with that, I’d do it too,” he said.

And there it was: the thing that cut hardest and deepest about all of it. _Ron_ was the one who’d dreamed about velvet carpets and sparkling chandeliers, gorgeous women in daring dresses and food with names that he couldn’t pronounce. _Harry_ had wanted the wife, the home, the two point five children. He’d even said as much, which was pretty rare for Harry, but Ron would have known anyway. Anyone with half an eye could have spotted the longing that was almost a physical part of Harry when he was at the Burrow.

“What, avoid your own sister?” Harry’s tone was jesting, but there was something about the rhythm that called for a Greek chorus instead.

“Leave it all behind, actually, but yes, to avoid her too. Sometimes. She and Hermione are both trying to turn into my mother --” Ron snapped his mouth shut, aware that he’d said the unforgivable thing. Fortunately, Harry was the only one who’d heard him.

Harry, wearing a threadbare Weasley jumper and yesterday’s jeans, was sitting on the table swinging his bare feet. He looked as if he were trying not to smile. “All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy.” On spotting Ron’s expression, he added quickly, “Oscar Wilde. He’s sort of a staple read for --”

“Gay men?” suggested Ron. He could only guess at one thing that would make Harry blush and stutter so, although he would have thought that Harry, of all people, would have got over that affliction.

In a bout of curiosity that was, for a wonder, not sated by Hermione’s encyclopaedic knowledge, Ron had investigated what exactly it was that men _did_ with each other. If he was any judge it was not an arena in which you’d want to have a delicate constitution, although the rewards did seem to be ample if you kept on at it.

“Yeah.” Harry’s face was the colour of the silk peonies Hermione had in a vase on the window. “Every man I’ve ever, um, slept with, has had an anthology of his plays or something. He’s really quite funny.”

“Knew a lot about women, anyway.” Ron felt gloomy, because a dead Muggle gay man knew more about the reasons for his wife’s behaviour than he did.

“So, do you think we should go and visit Hermione?” asked Harry. “The chances of seeing her in this house seem pretty remote, as far as I can tell.”

“It’s her campaign for centaur rights,” explained Ron. “She has to spend a lot of time convincing people to get on her side.”

“At least she’s doing what she’s good at,” said Harry, grinning. He hadn’t aged a day, really. Oh, his features had gone and grown up, but that smile was never going to get older than fifteen. Despite everything that had befallen him, Harry persisted in being ridiculously well-balanced. For a certain value of balance, of course, that could only be achieved when you owned as much money as he did.

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Ron. He wondered why he’d never thought of it. He didn’t want to acknowledge the thought that maybe, when he didn’t have Harry to follow any more, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He had a sinking feeling that it was the truth.

“Great! And we can have a greasy lunch in the Leaky. Tom still does those all-day breakfasts, doesn’t he?”

“Tom died two years ago,” said Ron. “His daughter Meg runs the place now. It’s a health food bar.”

“God, are they trying to stage some kind of world domination?” exclaimed Harry. Following his gaze, Ron realised that he’d spotted the lasagne.

“Hermione’s got a hand in it, so no, don’t rule it out.” Ron passed Harry on the way to the door and couldn’t fail to notice how, despite his numb feet, he suddenly felt flooded with warmth when his leg brushed Harry’s. “Do you have anything to wear?”

“This,” said Harry, stretching out his arms. The jumper was Ron’s and it had shrunk under the influence of a bad drying charm several years before. As a modest garment, it probably wasn’t designed to show as many strips of skin as Harry was now revealing.

Ron was about to say that he’d violate the dress code in the Ministry walking in wearing what he was wearing, but then he reminded himself that it was Harry Potter, after all. It was only people like Ron who had to wear their best clothes and wash their hair just to get into their wife’s office.

“Great,” he said. “I’m going to have a shower. Help yourself to the lasagne.”

“I’d rather set fire to my own head, frankly. It looks obnoxious.”

“Well, do something with it, or Ginny’ll know I didn’t eat it,” murmured Ron. He was trying to remember if he had a clean set of robes.

Harry pointed his wand at the lasagne and muttered something; a second later, a large Quaffle sat in its place. “Think quick.” Harry threw it at him. Ron caught it. “Not bad. We’d soon kick you back into shape.”

He went upstairs, whistling, and leaving Ron wondering who ‘we’ were.

After all, just because Ron had never found himself another best friend after Harry left didn’t mean that Harry hadn’t.

* * *

Afterwards, Ron couldn’t say with any accuracy that he hadn’t had suspicions. There were plenty of signs if you knew what you were looking for, and even if you didn’t. All he could think was that he’d supposed that Hermione was prepared to muddle along much as he had been doing. He didn’t realise how much more opportunity she’d had to change her life to the way she wanted it to be.

In the end, he couldn’t fault her. She’d done the intelligent thing. As it pertained to Ron, other people doing the intelligent thing seemed to involve leaving Ron out of the equation entirely.

Harry’s clout sailed them past security and, once they were in the plush upper levels of what Ron always thought of as High Command, people assumed they had a right to be there. They didn’t even take that much notice of Harry’s garb, although Ron was sure he did hear several people muttering that, “I thought Casual Dress Day was _Friday_!”

Then there was Hermione’s office, which Ron had seen once before on the day he’d helped her move into it. As her husband, Ron ignored the closed blind on the window and the sparkling ‘Busy’ sign. In the midst of explaining this to a doubtful-looking Harry, Ron opened the door. Hermione was leaning against the desk, her robes around her waist, moaning encouragement as someone who looked a lot like the Minister for International Relations panted into her neck.

The tableau held for a frozen moment. Then Harry muttered “Jesus” and yanked Ron out of the room by his wrist.

“That was Hermione,” said Ron, blankly.

“Yeah,” said Harry, and Ron hadn’t seen him so grim since the day he’d killed Snape. “I think it would be a good idea if we got out of here.”

Ron disagreed -- he wanted to go in there and kill the man, and then Hermione, and then demand why the hell she was doing something like that to him -- but his vocal chords had been shocked into sympathetic strike with his feet. The whole universe had been anaesthetised, except for one tiny patch of skin around his wrist. That was where Harry had him in an iron grip. There was a blur of surprised faces in the reception hall, a few cries of “Potter!”, but Ron felt and saw nothing but the rather sweaty compression of fingers crushing his small bones together.

Ron found himself in what looked like a used car emporium, crouching down behind a Volkswagen Beetle that claimed to have ‘Only three previous owners!!’ without any clear idea of how he’d got there.

Harry was gone too. Ron leaned back against the hubcap, his feet scraping on the grotty concrete. He decided that everything since Harry’s owl had, in fact, been a dream. A nightmare of the first water, actually. Maybe his life hadn’t been perfect a few days ago, maybe he’d missed his best friend and thought marriage wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. But it was a damn sight better than dealing with all the half-ireful, half-regretful feelings said best friend stirred up with his return, or finding out that his wife was cheating on him with a man that looked like a walrus only less svelte and with a personality to match.

Harry materialised before him, holding two cardboard cups. He passed one to Ron, who drank deeply in the vain hope that it contained quick-acting poison. It didn’t; but it _did_ make a concerted attempt to burn his oesophagus all the way down to his stomach.

“That,” said Ron, spluttering, “was absolutely disgusting. I hope you aren’t going to tell me it was pretending to be coffee.”

“Good.” Harry’s head was cocked and he was balancing lightly on his haunches, his own cup of coffee untouched on the gravel. “At least you’re talking again.”

“Huh.” Ron’s voice felt raw and he didn’t think it was all due to the molten lava masquerading as coffee that he’d just ingested.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry.

“What for? You weren’t cheating on me with Hermione,” Ron pointed out, with a kind of deathly calm.

“No, but it’s the kind of thing you say,” said Harry. “Believe me, I know. I’ve _done_ worse.”

“Like what?” Ron was keen to have Hermione’s sin trumped.

“I was in love with someone and I never told them.” Harry was staring at the coffee cup in Ron’s hand with fierce concentration, which was rather at odds with his lack of interest in the full cup sitting at his feet.

“Ha, that’s nothing.” Ron’s tone conveyed how utterly pathetic he though Harry’s travesty was by comparison. As it most likely pertained to Malfoy, that made it only disgusting, not terrible.

“Exactly.” Harry pulled Ron to his feet. “Nothing is what it was. You and Hermione had something. And you have a choice now.”

“A choice?” He sounded strangled to his own ears. “I don’t have a _choice._ Hermione’s chosen someone else.”

“You _can_ choose.” Harry’s voice was soft. “You can choose to go back and salvage your marriage, or …”

Ron leapt on the opening. “Or what?”

“Or you could come with me.” Harry looked down to where their hands were still twined. Ron could see freckles on his own hand, or he wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart. “I was going to ask you the first time … but you seemed so _complete_ , here, with Hermione and your family. I didn’t want to take it away from you. Me, I’m used to being alone.”

“What was Malfoy, then, the evening’s entertainment?” asked Ron, raising an eyebrow.

“Actually, yes, that would about sum it up,” said Harry in a cool voice. “I take it that’s a no, then.”

He didn’t move his hand.

“Would it involve me, you know, entertaining you like that?” asked Ron, flexing his fingers within Harry’s grip.

“God, no!” Harry coughed. “I mean, no offence, but I wouldn’t expect you to --”

“Good. Because I’ve had enough of pleasing other people.” Ron tucked his thumb thoughtfully around Harry’s. “I want someone else to entertain _me_ for a change.”

“I think I could manage that,” said Harry, and he didn’t sound so much strangled as hung, drawn and quartered.

“All those places you’ve seen …” said Ron in a dreamy voice. “You have to show them to me.”

“I don’t think some of them would be appropriate --” began Harry, but Ron shook his head in impatience.

Ron didn’t know why Hermione called him an ‘insensitive sod’ when she was angry with him. In the circumstances it was masterfully hypocritical, and maybe it was only true in her case. Ron had always realised what was going on with _Harry_ , even when he ignored what he knew.

Still, he thought, as he felt his eyes lock in that peculiar all-or-nothing way with his best friend’s, there was a point at which things became so damn obvious that _no one_ was allowed to ignore them.

He remembered his mother sobbing at each of her son’s weddings, happy and sad all at once. She’d told him that this was because she knew that they’d found someone who was, for the first time, more important in their life than anyone else, including their mother. That’s why she was sad, but Molly was also very capable of coping.

“We’d better tell people, then.” Harry’s flickering gaze traced Ron’s pupils.

“Nah,” said Ron. “We can come back in a few years. Maybe for Hermione’s next wedding.”

“You seem … really calm about this,” ventured Harry.

“Well, I’m not, really,” mused Ron. “I can’t believe Hermione was shagging that _git._ Funny, though, it isn’t as bad as when I found out about you and Malfoy.”

He held his breath then. There’d only been a few times in his life when he was perfectly aware that no matter what happened next, there was no going back. It was true all of the time, of course, but no one _realised_ it all of the time. And it was utterly bloody terrifying when you did.

“But you were married.” Harry seemed determined to be obtuse or die. “You fancied her since you were fourteen.”

Yeah, Harry had always been pretty dim when it came to things like this, Ron remembered. He didn’t seem to realise that losing him had been the worst part of Ron’s life, beating even strong contenders like all the instances Harry had nearly got himself killed, or that time Ron’s jealousy had nearly ruined their friendship for good.

“Yeah, that’s true,” said Ron. Harry was biting his lip again, pulping the skin into a lush pink. “Only ‘cause I couldn’t have you, though.”

Under his teeth, Harry _was_ smiling.

“And you’re telling me this now?” was what he said.

“Harry, I hate to tell you this,” said Ron, “but _you’re_ the one holding _my_ hand.”

“That proves something, does it?”

“Dunno.” Ron leaned forward, wondering for a lightening-strike second if this was going to be very much different with a man, and touched his lips to Harry’s.

A tremble went through Harry. It was barely discernible, but it was enough. Ron pulled back, feeling triumphant.

“But that might,” he added.

* * *

So they left and saw the world. Harry ended up buying the Volkswagen, which was a lurid green and had a tendency to break down every three miles or on hitting forty on the speedometer, whichever came first. Ron found it less irritating than he might have supposed, because on empty stretches Harry proved to be a dab hand at magical automechanics. And, in places where it was too risky to attempt spells, they explored nearby fields with emergency supplies of beer and cold sausages and admired the vegetables, lying untouched in the dirt of farms as nature had intended them to be.

Whenever they got tired of shaking the dirt out of their clothes, they just stayed in the car and conducted experiments on how long it took to thoroughly steam up every window. Harry always liked to make palm prints in the condensation, which mystified Ron and rather defeated the purpose, in his opinion. He didn’t really mind, though.

After a few months, they went to France. Then Italy, Switzerland, Egypt, Siberia, Iran, Turkey, the Canary Islands, Ibiza, Australia and even America, after Harry talked Ron out of his terror. They stayed there for a long time, because Ron found out about the doughnuts, which were to British ones what sulphur matches were to voice-activated strip wall lighting. If Harry hadn’t skilfully concealed the flavours of ice cream from him, they probably never would have left.

They did go back once and, after that, a few more times. Hermione married her walrus and produced several children who, against all probability, looked like emperor penguins. Everyone was confused by what Ron had done, and angry, and a little betrayed, but they coped fine without him. He and Harry promised to write. Although they received numerous bundles of photographs, postmarked and rifled through by the time they arrived several months late, they didn’t.

Ron was finally free.

* * *

One day, Harry admitted to his deception _vis_ the ice cream.

After that, they never left San Francisco again.

 

 

 

THE END

 


End file.
